


Favourite

by lepusarcticus



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Angst, Couch Sex, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-18
Updated: 2017-01-18
Packaged: 2018-09-18 11:32:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9383147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lepusarcticus/pseuds/lepusarcticus
Summary: Of all the manifold iterations of Special Agent Fox Mulder, this one is her favourite.





	

**Author's Note:**

> You'll take your Canadian spelling and you'll LIKE it. Set during the season of secret sex.

Of all the manifold iterations of Special Agent Fox Mulder, this one is her favourite.

His neck lay stretched in a gentle arc over the back of his couch, the muscles of his throat and the swell of his Adam’s apple shaping a mountain range. She ghosts her fingers over the ridges. As perilous and magnetic as Everest, this man.

He looks back at her through hooded, heavy eyes, vexed with need. His lips are parted in euphoric disbelief - that is, when he’s not sinking his teeth into the bottom one. Looks painful. His eyebrows dance, coming together, rising, smoothing apart with every movement of her hips. An entire symphony of expression on that usually stoic face. She’s proud of herself. She sinks down onto his cock again, relishing the delicious agony of how he fills her, how tight she knows she is around him.

Yes. This is her favourite.

Don’t get her wrong - she gets a special, secret thrill when he’s on yet another oratory tangent, all passion and persuasion and poetry. He’s Cicero in a trench coat. She loves the labyrinthine prose of his case reports, the playful, meandering way he strings words together. His mind is a beautiful thing.

But oh God, his body is beautiful too. His hands bracketing her hipbones, running up her waist. His lithe runner’s thighs tensing against her ass as she rides him. Much slower than he’d like, which makes him groan in frustration. She likes that too.

When pressed, she might admit to the gothic rush of erotic satisfaction that washes over her when he emerges from another altercation, triumphant and grim, spattered with the bad guy’s blood. She wonders at this morbid streak of hers, but chalks it up to primate instinct. Her mate might not be popular, but he is undeniably an alpha.

And still, this is her favourite.

He’s gripping her hips and angling her so that her clit is grinding against his stomach. He snarls as her wetness meets him there, every inch the carnivore. A fresh wave of heat between them. This is so good. God.

She wouldn’t confess to it, for self-preservation's sake, but she loves him with a ferocity that frightens her when she sees him with children. His gentleness. How he respects their personhood, their autonomy. People so often speak to children as if they’re stupid. Not Mulder. He’d make a good father, she thinks, when she’s in a self-indulgent mood. In another time, maybe. Another life.

But for now, this will do. This will do wonderfully. She picks up the pace, fucking him wildly, her pussy clenching around him. She smiles at the way his jaw twitches. “ _Scul--fuck---_ ”. It’s interesting how the faces we make in pain are so similar to the ones we make in pleasure, she thinks distantly.

Of course, she loves it when he’s slow and worshipful, a supplicant at the altar of her pussy. She loves his wide hand wrapped around her neck, a willful submission, the warmth of her trust twinged with a small, exhilarating pang of danger. She loves her hair in his fists as he drives roughly into her from behind. She loves it when he makes love to her, when he’s raw and open and tearful and they slip into spiritual, soulful rapture together. She loves when he fucks her with his fingers against his car door in the Hoover building parking garage. In the middle of the day. grinning against her neck, nipping her in warning when she gets too loud.

But this is her favourite.

When she’s in total control. When she can make it all better for him. When she can make him forget, even for an hour. When she can fuck the sadness and desperation and paranoia out of him, stave off the insidious darkness crouching in the corner of his heart. You’ll have your turn, she thinks, but right now, he’s mine.

“ _Scully… ScullyI’mgonnacome-_ ” His voice reminds her of good scotch. Smoky, golden.

Yes. She wants him empty, free. She slows, to his great frustration, and presses her breasts into his chest. Pauses on the tip of his cock, and then lowers herself back down, slowly, languidly.

“ _Fill me up, then, Mulder,_ ” She purrs, “ _Give it to me._ ”

His face erupts into delight at her little experiment in raunchiness, before his eyes slam closed- “ _HolyfuckingSHITScully -_ ” and he comes. Hard. She milks him with her muscles, relishing the animal noises he’s making, the hard twitching of his legs underneath her, his strong arms pinning her to him, the bloody sink of his teeth into her shoulder. She rides his orgasm out with him, until he releases her gingerly, smoothing his hands over the small of her back.

A smile plays on his lips as he gives her ass a gentle squeeze. “Dear diary,” he rasps, “today I discovered that I am utterly and irrevocably in love with a real live succubus. Must tell Scully. She’ll never believe it.” 

“Do you ever think of anything besides aliens and conspiracies and demons, Mulder?” She sighs and smiles indulgently, playing the part.

He finds her hand and presses it to his lips. He’s still hard inside of her. “Mmm. I think of you. I think of this.”


End file.
